Independence Day
by Anna Whitlinger
Summary: July 4th, 2013, Independence Day. The sun is shining in New York, but it is raining heavily in London.


**First off, happy Independence Day! Man these two have gotta have my favorite relationship. I mean, they could be friends/brothers/lovers! And they're relationship's awesome no matter which type. **

**Happy birthday, America! Enjoy~**

* * *

It was about to rain.

England could tell from the sudden lack of pedestrians out on the London streets and the shadows that had painted themselves onto the clouds. The air had suddenly grown chilly, although it was the middle of summer. He stared out the window, his tea already gone cold, remembering.

'_Don't do this, America.'_

'_I can't fucking stand this anymore, England! I am sick of all the bullshit you made me go through!'_

'_It isn't worth it. I-I'll discuss something with the Parliament..."_

'_Don't you understand? You already had your chance. I _will _gain my freedom from you, and nothing is going to stop me.'_

'_America...'_

'_DON'T TOUCH ME!'_

'_...'_

'_Never. Touch. Me. _Again._'_

America had gone too far when his Sons of Liberty destroyed the tea imports in the Boston Tea Party. England remembered finding numerous chests floating in the murky waters the following morning, and America himself, sitting at the harbor with a bitter smile formed on his lips.

The war erupted a few months after that.

He could recall nothing during America's fight for independence but rage. Absolute fury. Those times had been dark; just thinking about the things he had wanted to do to the young colony made him wince. But England did remember the very last moment of the war, that moment when he stared into icy blue eyes, found nothing, and simply lost hope. He could still remember hearing America's receding footsteps and the cheers of his army, seeing his battered form, shoulders hunched and head low, and knowing that no sweet could mask the bitterness of the rift he had created between the former brothers.

England told himself that he didn't care. America had always been stubborn and rebellious; it made sense that he would want to be independent. So his heart didn't twist whenever the Revolutionary War was brought up, and he didn't feel anything whenever he looked into America's sky blue eyes.

And when lightning flashed and the clouds began to weep heavy showers, his tears did not flow with them. Not at all.

. . . .

America woke up to good weather. Yawning, he rolled out of bed and put Texas on. He felt...older.

Okay, not really. He felt exactly the same age as yesterday, which was 237 years, to be exact. But today was his birthday, so it made sense for him to act mature for once. Wait, that didn't sound right; he was always mature. Heroes were never immature.

America had a _lot _of plans for today. After a hearty breakfast at McDonald's, he began making calls. Canada was first.

"Hey, Canadia! Don't forget to come to my birthday party tonight, 'kay?"

"B-But my name is–"

"See ya there!"

Then was Japan. "Yo, Japan!" America greeted once the Asian nation picked up. "I'm inviting ya to my birthday party tonight. It's gonna be a blast, so you should totally come!"

"H-Hai, America-kun. I will be there. Happy birthday."

Next was Lithuania. "'Sup, Lithuania! Today's my 237th birthday, so you gotta go to my party tonight! Bring that crossdressing dude you're always with, too."

After Lithuania's call, America contacted Prussia, who he happened to be pretty close with due their history of playing numerous pranks on England and Germany whenever a world summit grew dull. Then he invited the Italys, Greece (who didn't pick up, so he left a message), other European countries, the Middle Eastern nations, Germany, China and his family of Asians, and, after a long hour of consideration, Russia. France called and said he would definitely be there, which sounded a tad bit disturbing.

There was only one nation left, and America knew this call would be the toughest. He dialled the ten digits, hesitating between each number, took a deep breath, and pressed call.

There was a soft click, but no voice came through.

"Hey, Artie?" America said to drown the cold silence. "Um, it's my birthday today, so it'd be great if you came to my party tonight. It's going to be awesome! I mean, I even ordered some fish and chips to make you happy..." He faltered. "England? Are you there?"

The only response he received was the dial tone.

. . . .

"Brandy, if you would," England said, laying down a couple pounds on the counter. "The stronger, the better."

"Right away, sir," the bartender said. He brought out a bottle and began pouring into a glass. "Is it a heartbreak? Women can be cruel."

England laughed bitterly. "I wish."

"What is it, then? " The guy set down a glass of clear amber liquid in front of the England. "Debt? Financial problems? Got sacked by your boss?"

_No, just that my little brother declared war against me, allied with the frog, destroyed my armies and took my place as world superpower. _England lifted the rim of the glass to his lips and took a swig. "I suppose."

"Tough to keep your job in times like these," the man said sympathetically. "That's why you should be a bartender; we're kept alive by people's problems."

"Maybe I will." England downed the last of the brandy and tossed a few more pounds on the table. "Two more shots, I need to be drunk enough for my little brother's birthday party."

. . . .

Everything was going so perfectly, America felt it wasn't right. The food was to everyone's satisfaction; he'd ordered cuisine from all around the world. The music was culturally diverse, and the entertainment pretty awesome, in his opinion. Canada was noticed a lot, primarily because of the Truth or Dare game America had set up. The Canadian had stood out the most when Prussia had dared him to do an impression of America.

But from time to time America's eyes would move to the lonely tray of fish and chips sitting in the corner, and he would wonder why no was standing drunk on the table, clad in only an apron and shouting rude jokes insulting the French.

"Time for Spin the Bottle!" he heard France declare. "Who's going to join me?"

Spain and Prussia cheered. Canada turned to America, who was standing by the window, and asked, "Bro? Do you want to play?"

America shook his head. "Nah, I'm gonna skip this round. You guys have fun."

There was something he had to do.

. . . .

It was raining heavily in London. He'd forgotten to bring a umbrella, so he was soaking wet by the time he arrived at the bar, or pub, what they called it in England.

The personification of the United Kingdom, aka England, aka Arthur, was sitting slumped in a stool, telling the bartender something in a slightly slurred voice.

"So then I leave for a few hours and when I come back, the little bastard had destroyed the bloody kitchen," England was saying as America entered. "It was a complete bloody wreck, I tell you..."

"Arthur," America interrupted.

"Sod off," England told him irritably. "Can't you see I'm drinking?" That was true enough; countless empty glasses were clustered around him.

"Would you like anything?" The bartender asked the American politely, to which America shook his head and half-smiled.

"We need to talk," America said to England, who glared at him.

England swung his fist a America clumsily. "Just bloody leave me alone, you wanker. What do you want..." Realization dawned him and the Englishman seemed to suddenly sober up.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" England asked coldly, green eyes murderous.

The bartender gave them a nervous smile.

"To talk," America replied. "It's been centuries..."

"You had the nerve to step foot into my country," England cut in, his voice icy, "on this particular day. I could really kill you. Get out of my sight before I do."

"Arthur..." America began, but England suddenly jumped up and gave the younger a rough shove, sending him stumbling backwards.

Everyone in the room was hushed now, staring at the two nations with wide, fearful eyes. America grabbed the side of a table to steady himself. "Damnit, why won't you listen?"

"Take your glasses off," England said.

America blinked. "What? No!"

England responded to this by reaching forward and snatching Texas off America's face. He tossed the glasses to the ground, where they broke into pieces. Angered, America glared at England. "What was that for?"

England stared back with emerald eyes full of a million emotions. "I want to see you exactly the way you were when you left me for your bloody independence. You've hidden behind them for way too long, _United States of_ _America." _England spat the name, his voice full of disgust and loathe.

Their conversation couldn't happen in front of all these people, he knew, but America was too angry to care. "I never hid behind them. It was you who were hiding, all these years."

"So? Did you come here to mock me?" England took a step forward. "To savor your victory?"

"No," America answered quietly. "I came to tell you to let go of the past."

England laughed without humor. "Not a bloody chance that I'll forget how you betrayed me."

"I don't want you to forget," America said, "because I never will. I want you to accept it, England. Holding on to something that already happened sure as hell won't do you any good."

England was silent.

"I just want us to be friends, Artie," America continued. "Please?"

America thought he'd succeeded. A flicker of doubt passed England's face and he wavered, for just a few seconds.

Then his eyes hardened and he said flatly, "That's a pipe dream, America. We hate each other. 'Friends' just isn't the right word to describe us. It isn't and it never will be."

With those heartbreaking words, England left the pub to disappear into the cold, never ending London rain.

. . . .

The following morning, America refused to get out of bed. He had Tony order Chinese takeout and played video games for long periods of time, until he had almost exhausted his collection.

"Are you okay?" Tony asked the nation when he spaced out and stared at a game's start screen for a full twenty minutes.

America blinked and snapped out of his trance. "Uh, yeah. Totally, dude!" He attempted his trademark grin, but it came out as more of a mutated grimace. He sighed. "I just dunno what to do, Tony."

"The Limey bastard's an old man," the alien said, spooning out some egg drop soup. "Just give him a little while longer and he might come to his senses."

"Maybe," America said dully.

Tony stood. "Oh right, I almost forgot. A package was sent to you this morning." He brought out a dictionary-sized cardboard box and handed it to America.

There was no return address. America removed the tape and opened the box, wondering why anyone would send him something. A late birthday present, maybe?

Wrapped in a soft cloth was Texas. The broken pieces had been glued back together with obvious care, and the lens were slightly wet with what from the salty taste America knew was not rain. The glasses had been thrown roughly and had practically been shattered, but broken things could be always be fixed. He put them on and felt like himself again. And as the familiar pressure against the bridge of his nose returned, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

There was no message accompanying Texas, but that was alright; America understood.

* * *

**Eh...I wanted this to turn out less...angsty? Ah, well. My stories always end up completely different what I have in mind. ****And I just found out Canada's birthday is July 1st. o.o Does that mean he's older than America?**

**Just mentioning: I know that in real life the British don't really care about the US's independence, but this is anime, so I think it's okay to exaggerate a little. All for the fans, ya know what I mean?**

**I really think my writing changed a LOT this year. If you were to read my fanfics from last year you'd be wondering, did Whitlinger's evil twin write this? Dunno if it improved or just became weirder.**

**Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed it! Byes~**

**...x Whitlinger x... **


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